Co did not speak for some time, and Aaron watched her, feeling empty and broken and finding that he didn’t much care what way she chose. Before him was the author of some of his greatest happiness and his greatest sadness, and he could do nothing about either. He never could.
“There is one thing you do not understand, Kevlane,” the Virtue said, finally, “for all your wisdom, for all your learning, you have never understood it.”
“Oh?” He said, his eyes narrowing, “and what’s that?”
“Without sadness,” The Virtue said, “there is no joy. Without pain and suffering, there can be no relief, no true pleasure. It is not their end that defines humans, Kevlane. It never has been. It is their journey. Beauty is found among the dross, is created among the dross. And not just beauty but power. When a starving mother gives up what little food she has to nurture and feed her child, that is beauty, Kevlane. True beauty, is not found in appearance but in purpose. There is beauty in sadness, as there must be. Beauty in pain and, yes, even in death, for death is not the story, nor is it even the ending of the story. Death is only the proof that the story was. The journey, the life, the pain, the heartache and heart break, these are the story. A man is not defined by the substance or the manner of his death but by the chronicles of his life. Even anger has its beauty for just anger is the blaze of a flame in the darkness, the flowering of petals in the desert. Life is beauty, Kevlane. You did not understand this then, and you do not understand it now. To want something you cannot have, to need it, is not suffering; it is to be human. You do not see it, even now. But you will. You will be made to.”
With that, the Virtue flew toward Aaron and, in another moment, vanished inside of him. Aaron barely noticed. He felt drained, empty. A wineskin burst apart in the sun, ragged and of no use. He knew, now, who had killed his parents, knew the identity of the man on whom he’d sworn to have his revenge. The man stood only a short distance away, sneering now. His best friend, his parents’ murderer. And he could do nothing.
Aaron, the Virtue said, you have to get up.
“It makes no difference,” the man, Boyce Kevlane said, walking slowly toward them, “I will have you nonetheless, little one. There are ways to make you bond with me and no other.”
Aaron, get up!
Aaron stared at the man drawing closer, watched him raising his sword in anticipation, but he did nothing. He was hurt, physically and emotionally both, and it seemed that the easiest thing would be for it to end. One more death, his own, and he need not worry anymore.
Aaron, he killed your parents. Remember.
And he did. A memory coming to him that was not a memory at all but a moment relived. He came down the stairs, holding his breath whether at fear of being caught or fear of what he might find, he hadn’t been sure of then, and he was not sure of it now. Each step down the stairs seeming to take an eternity and flash by in an instant both at the same time, him needing to know but not wanting to see and then, too soon, he was at the bottom and his fears were not fears now but truth. Truth lying before him in pools of blood. Truth and despair. His mother, always so kind, his father who he’d always thought the strongest, smartest man he’d ever known. A man who knew difference between right and wrong and held to it, no matter what. But how could he be smart, how could his actions be right, if they led to this?
Death is not the story. He wasn’t sure if those words were spoken by the Virtue or by some voice inside of himself, but there was a quiet strength in them. A true strength. Still, he did not stir, looking up at the man now, raising the sword above his head, ready to end it. And why would he fight that? There would be worse things than an ending. Death is not the ending.
Refusing to feel is not the answer, Aaron. It never is. You must move now. Would you not fight for your parents’ memory? Would you not fight for Adina? For you know what he will do once he’s finished here. Adina, Leomin, May and the rest … all of those who you call friends. He would take them from you, Aaron. Take them as he took your parents.
“Goodbye, Aaron Envelar,” the man said, grinning that cruel grin.
“No.” Aaron hadn’t been aware he was going to speak until he did and with that denial, that rejection, a fire kindled in the ashes of his soul, growing and growing, fed by all the suffering which he had endured over the years. The loss of his parents, the abuse he suffered and was made to watch others suffer at the orphanage, the loss of his friend, the loss of himself. All of it fuel, feeding the fire until it was blazing inside of him, its heat so intense that he arched his back against it. “No!” He screamed.
The man took a step back at the power in Aaron’s voice, at the strength in it. Then, hissing, he swung his stolen sword at Aaron in a vicious arc, but Aaron was no longer there and the blade bit deep into the wood of the desk.
Aaron flowed to the side of the blow, and the thing was still trying to get the blade out when he was on it, striking it once, twice, in rapid succession in the face, screaming his rage and defiance and still the anger built, an all-consuming tide of it, growing and growing, and his fists struck like hammers, the man’s face twisting and cracking beneath them. There was pain and blood in his knuckles, but Aaron ignored it, hitting the man again and again, the creature, surprised and in pain, releasing the sword and stumbling back until it was against the wall.
Aaron ripped the sword free of the desk with a bestial growl and was on him before he could recover, hacking and hacking at him, the blade carving great chunks of flesh that came free in showers of blood, and the creature screamed again. Each scream was more fuel for the fire that raged inside, Aaron, and although the blaze was great and terrible, it did not consume, did not take him over, as it had the other times, because now he knew. He understood. Beauty is created among the dross. Things must die so that others may grow. People are not their own stories, they are all one story. And the story is never truly over. He hated the creature before him, true, the man who had taken so much from him, but he pitied it more, and with that knowledge the anger burning in him shifted, not a blaze any longer, wild and uncontrollable, but a blade of fire, sharp and hot and precise. Something that could be wielded. Controlled.
Several spikes of flesh shot from the creature, threatening to impale him, but Aaron felt them coming even before he saw them, reacting before they appeared, stepping to one side as they came and hacking them away. The creature swung one of its arms at him, the fist taking the shape of a hammer as it had before, but Aaron was ready for it this time, and he jumped back, the appendage passing in front of his face so closely that he could feel the wind from it. He took a moment to get control of his ragged breathing, and the creature, bleeding from dozens of cuts and stabs, many of which should have been fatal, was breathing hard itself, but smiling, too. “Fool,” it croaked, its voice hoarse and full of pain, “I cannot die.”
“Why me?” Aaron said, “Why my parents?”
The creature only grinned then, and Aaron stepped forward, hacking off one of its hands. It came free in a spurt of blood, and the creature screamed.
“Why me?”
The thing’s scream abruptly cut off and it looked at the bloody stump as if fascinated by it, a thoughtful expression on the man’s face. “Why you?” It said, looking back at him, “is it really so hard for you to understand, Aaron? It’s because of who your father was, because of what he was. I’d say ask him,” it grinned, “if you could.”
“What do you mean, damnit? Because he was the general of Prince Eladen’s army?”
The thing spat a mouthful of blood, bearing its crimson teeth. “I care nothing for Eladen, no more than that he was a vessel for one of the little ones. My interest with him ended there. No, Aaron Envelar, your father did not die because of the prince. He died because of a choice, one he made long before you were ever born.”
“What choice?”
The creature smiled wider. “It would have been so neat, don’t you see? So clean. You would have been found in the queen’s chambers, dead, and th
e queen, oh she would have been terrified, of course, but alive. Or, at least,” it winked, “someone that looked like the queen. I had meant, of course, not to be in such a rush—it generally is not my way, I assure you—but that fool Belgarin sends his army despite my orders. A thorn in my side, but one that will be dealt with as soon as I’m finished here.”
“What choice?” Aaron repeated.
“Your friends, of course, the Parnen and the princess,” the creature said as if he hadn’t spoken, “well, they had to die, Aaron. Surely, you see that. They couldn’t be left alive—they would ask too many questions. No,” it said, “it is better that they are dead.” It said the last with a grin, preparing to savor his reaction.
Aaron smiled back, “Sorry to disappoint you, friend, but Adina and Leomin are alive and well. The men you sent though … I do not expect you’ll hear from them again.”
The creature’s eyes drew down in a scowl then it howled, and though its visage was one of a man, the sound that issued from its throat was like that of some raging beast. It charged him with a speed that was shocking, its arms forming into spikes in front of it and had he not been prepared for it, Aaron would have been skewered. As it was, he stepped to the side, sliding his sword through the thing’s throat but didn’t completely manage to avoid its onward rush, its shoulder clipping him and sending him rolling backward. He rolled end over end until he finally came to an abrupt and jarring halt against the balcony’s railing.
He grunted, shaking his head to clear it and looked up to see the creature standing framed in the door to the balcony, watching him with eyes filled with rage as it pulled the sword from its throat in a spurt of blood. It tried to speak, but the wound in its throat had not yet healed, and all that came out were wet, wheezing sounds.
It charged him, holding the sword in what was a normal arm once more and striking down at him where he lay. Aaron leapt up, inside of the thing’s reach and grabbed the front of its tunic, rolling onto his back, bringing the creature with him, and kicking both legs into its stomach with all the momentum the roll gave him. The creature gave a scream and then it went tumbling over the railing.
Wincing, Aaron stretched his neck, one hand on his injured ribs as he lurched to his feet. He glanced over the railing and saw the creature hanging there by one hand that had transformed into a hook and latched onto the balcony’s railing. Even as Aaron watched, it was lifting itself up, still smiling that bloody, mad grin. It tried to speak, but the wound in its throat had not closed yet—it seemed to Aaron that the healing it did slowed with each wound it was forced to mend—and it didn’t matter anyway. Aaron knew well enough what it would say.
By the time he shuffled back to the railing with the discarded sword, the creature had managed to get its other arm around the railing and was working its way up. “What choice did my father make?” He said.
The creature stared up at him, the hole in its throat healed. “I will destroy everything you care about. I will find your woman, and I will carve such pain into her body—”
The blade went through the creature’s wrist smooth, and its words dissolved into guttural grunts of pain and rage as it struggled to cling on with its remaining hand. “What choice?”
What little of a man remained in the thing was gone now, and it hissed and spat and chomped its teeth at him. “Maybe you can’t die,” Aaron said, shrugging and immediately regretting it for the pain that lanced through his chest, “I don’t know one way or the other. But it seems to me, you’re healing slower now. Have you noticed?”
The creature stopped and stared at him, frozen, its eyes going wide, then the blade cut down on the other wrist, and Aaron watched the thing fall into space. It struck the roof of a building far below, fell through it, and he lost sight of it as the ceiling collapsed.
There was a sound behind him, and Aaron turned to see the young captain Francis rushing in, his blade at the ready. “Guards come quickly! Someone tries to murder the queen!”
Aaron frowned, his eyes narrowing and stepped back through the balcony door to stand in the room facing the captain. “Strange,” Aaron said, “that you would think someone was going to murder your queen, captain. Why is that, I wonder?”
“What?” The captain said, just noticing him, “I don’t … you. Why are you—”
“Alive, captain?” Aaron said, “Is that what you were going to ask? I’m supposed to be dead, right? Supposed to be lying here on the ground, and you were what, exactly? Supposed to take credit for killing me, for saving the queen? Only, it wouldn’t have been the queen anymore, would it, captain? It would have been your master.”
The captain glanced between the queen who stared at him with wide eyes back to Aaron. “I don’t … Your Majesty,” he stammered, “this man … this man—”
“This man,” Isabelle said, her anger helping her to finally find her voice, “saved my life while the captain of my own guards plotted to take it. You will be executed, captain, your lands and title taken from you and your family, if there are any unlucky enough to be claimed as such. You and your name will be disgraced.”
“You fat bitch,” the captain said, and then he was rushing toward the bed, but Aaron, having seen it coming as the queen spoke, intercepted him halfway, charging his shoulder into the man and sending him hurtling against the wall. The captain grunted with pain and steadied himself, his blade still in his hand, “Alright, you common bastard,” he said, “this will be no show this time, and I will kill you for my entertainment, and my entertainment alone. I will show you what true skill is.”
The man came forward in a rush, his sword leading, swinging it in a wild, furious arc. Aaron knocked the blade aside almost casually then slammed the hilt of his own borrowed blade into the captain’s nose, crushing it again and ruining whatever work the healers had done. The man fell to his knees, screaming in high-pitched, keening wails. Aaron brought the sword up and then down again, the hilt hammering into the captain’s temple and the screams abruptly cut off as the man’s body went limp and crumpled to the ground.
“Sorry,” he said, glancing at the queen, “just couldn’t take that screaming.”
He looked up at the sound of approaching boots to see several guards pouring into the room. “Damnit,” he said, “you guys have a knack for showing up at the perfect time.”
They filed into the room without saying a word, six of them in total, spreading out along the edges of the room, their blades drawn. “Stand down,” a familiar voice came, and Aaron saw Sergeant Brandon Gant limping into the room, a makeshift bandage wrapped around his middle. “Thank the gods,” the man breathed, “Your Majesty, are you okay?”
The queen swallowed hard, visibly taking a moment to master her emotions, then she glanced at where Captain Francis lay in a pile on the floor, still unconscious. “Captain,” she said, turning back to Brandon, and the older man’s only reaction was to raise an eyebrow, “Have some of your men take this filth to the dungeon.”
The sergeant nodded, “Of course, Your Majesty,” he said, bowing his head. He motioned two men forward and they lifted the unconscious captain up between them and started away. “Go with them,” he said to two more, “make sure he doesn’t wake up and cause any trouble.”
“Yes sir,” the men said in unison and then they too were gone, disappearing through the doorway.
“You were right, by the way,” the new captain said, turning to Aaron, “four men came to assassinate your friends. Imagine my surprise when one of them was the general himself.”
“General Vander?” The queen said, shocked.
The captain nodded, “I’m afraid so, my queen. General Vander is a traitor.”
“What about Adina and Leomin?” Aaron said.
The sergeant smiled at him, “The princess and the Parnen are both alive and well, Mr. Envelar. Thanks to you.”
Aaron breathed a heavy sigh of relief, sinking down to sit on the floor, his back against the wall. He realized he was still holding the borrowed blade, its
edges coated with blood and dropped it. “Not me, serg—I’m sorry, captain. You did what I asked when you didn’t have to and because of that they’re alive. Thank you. If there’s anything you ever need in the future, I’m your man.”
“Well,” the older man said, smiling wider now as he glanced at the queen, “there might just be one thing.”
CHAPTER
FORTY
“Come on, damnit!” Aaron shouted, “Move your feet! You there, what was that? Yeah, you,” he said as the soldier who’d just been knocked down turned to him in question, “you’re not chopping wood, man, you’re fighting for your life. I see another wild swing, you’re doing laps, you hear me?”
“Yes sir,” the soldier said, getting back up and facing off with his opponent again. Aaron sighed, stretching in a vain effort to loosen the bandages that had been wrapped thickly around his chest. Seemed to him that the damned healers had decided Kevlane hadn’t done a thorough enough job and planned to kill him by squeezing his insides to mush.
The bandages are to help you heal, Co said, and though he couldn’t see her eyes, and although she didn’t even have eyes, as far as he knew, he could hear her rolling them in her voice.
An easy thing to say when you’re not the one that can’t draw a breath, firefly. “Circles, damnit, stop moving back and forth like you’re on some kind of damn game board. Move in circles!”
“Yes sir,” several of the soldiers shouted in unison before promptly going back to being game pieces.
“Maybe I should have been more specific when I said I’d help you any way I could,” Aaron said, glancing sidelong where Captain Gant stood beside him.
The older man grinned, rubbing at the salt and pepper stubble on his chin, “Maybe,” he said, then he glanced back at the hundreds of troops engaged in their practice duels. “Do you think they’ll be ready?”
“To chop trees, maybe,” Aaron said. “You there, Bastion!”
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